


Stone Angel

by HarlotsHouse



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: A statue that resembles a certain profiler, Flash Fic, Gay yearning, Hannibal POV, Hannibal is dumb and doesn’t understand why Will refuses to speak with him, Hannibal misses Will, Hannibal the drama queen, Lonely cannibal, M/M, Silent Treatment, Will is in jail, Will refuses to speak to Hannibal, grave robbing except Hannibal is robbing a statue that looks like Will, mentions of dead bodies, mind palace fuckery, murder husbands are fighting again, s2 centric, secret pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 06:26:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29755425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarlotsHouse/pseuds/HarlotsHouse
Summary: Will’s silence is disappointing but Hannibal’s subconscious is persistent in finding a way to keep him attached. So he gets a statue that definitely doesn’t look like Will Graham to have near him at all times. People notice.___In which Hannibal hadn’t anticipated missing Will so much after he framed him for his crimes and landed him in jail.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 6
Kudos: 86
Collections: Hannibal flashfic 7





	Stone Angel

**Author's Note:**

> Listened to dramatic sad songs while writing this but Hannibal’s ego didn’t allow me to go too deep into the angst.

The threads overlap, loose at points and other times forcibly knotted, full of vices and virtues all the same. In between the gaps there lie the fresh memories all pertaining to beauty in the form of a man. His sad eyes haunt this space in constant dissonance. Hannibal loves the sight of them. Carefully, he spools the thread, unravelling and disentangling all that comes with it before turning it into a polished gold. There's care embedded into every movement of his articulate fingers.

Time is a stranger in this place.

When Hannibal is finished, he is disturbed to find a hiccup in the thread. It is frayed, like straw poking between silk finish. The room holds its breath, and promptly shatters to reveal reality, where beauty hides beneath ugly surfaces and very rarely beneath splendor.

Should Hannibal risk the peril of submerging himself back into that room in his palace, or would this dwindling fiend expunge itself with wait?

Realistically he knows the answer to that, but any dormant emotion that should not elevate him socially - and/or his plans - is to remain unaddressed for now, finer things lie in wait.

So Hannibal immerses himself into his work, he sees his patients, helps Jack on a case, and plans his pursuit of Alana, laying out his foundation as a dependable and good person. They are all easily enamored with what he can provide, swayed by his smooth words and sure eyes, unaware of what brews beneath his person suit.

Following his usual routines come his hobbies but they too are lacking in something. What is a song with no tune, what is a meal that provides no nourishment; useless.

Hannibal doesn't take kindly to such things so he discards them like yesterday's news. Eventually he starts to weigh a bit less and his house becomes quieter.

...

His face mingles on tense as he serves himself a glass of his foreboding. When he inhales he is shocked to find there is no sign of the familiar fragrance, or rather, he can't smell it.

Hannibal sets the glass down, momentarily lost. Outside his window night has set, the fire in the chimney crackles with warmth but still his blood remains a glacier. No one sits beside him tonight.

* * *

Hannibal hears nothing of Will, not since having discussed his incarceration with Jack and Alana. He chooses to let him simmer in his anger, with time Will's indignation will hedge way for him to ask for Hannibal, if not for help, for his presence, just to catch a glimpse of the man that framed him.

Days fly by. Then a week. No word from Will. A static has settled over Hannibal's house, one that is not drowned out by Hannibal's renewed attempts to take up music, it still strums behind the tune stubbornly like a bloodsucking leech. The sound he produces is solemn, every pitch a hitched breath of expectance as the melancholy accents ladder up in allegro only to sooth into witling cries across the keys with a quiet intensity that speaks of ardor.

He draws it to a close then gathers himself to his kitchen and supplements the once again low buzzing air with the sound of sizzling oil on a pan, aiming to rejuvenate his appetite.

"I trusted you," lips hiss.

Hannibal calmly brings the stove to low heat before wiping his hands. "It saddens me to hear that. I trust _you_ , Will."

"No, you trust what you believe I will do. You trust your knowledge of my mind."

"Is that not the same?"

"You know better than that."

"I'm not sure that I do."

Hannibal turns around but Will isn't there behind him.

...

As he eats, Hannibal allows himself to fully occupy his mind. The rooms are changing, some halls have grown longer while others have become vacant, serving as memory holders rather than makers. He enters the newer room from before. The spindle of the spinning wheel tempts Hannibal forward. The needle pricks his flesh, drawing blood, the spinning wheel animates to life, the whirring noise screeching as the threads hung above like cobwebs slowly ease their way into it and transform into the familiar shining thread.

"It's bad habit to visit a place you destroyed."

"I did this?" Hannibal looks up to the tangled threads.

"You saw me fraying and pulled the threads apart more," the imaginary Will says, and Hannibal confirms his words as he looks down to find the gold thread is tarnished, no amount of spinning will fix the premeditated mess at its origins. Slowly it stops coming out gold at all, the strands of hay fall flat to the ground like wilted bodies. "I bet it pleases you to know you got me by the seams."

Hannibal frowns. "You shouldn't be in here."

"I can go to another room. A cage is a cage no matter where it is."

"What I mean is you shouldn't be in here at all."

"Why not?" Will leans forward, letting his breath mingle against Hannibal's ear. "You're the one who forced me in here."

* * *

The statue is carved in such a way that gives the illusion of a veil shrouding it's weeping features. It's eyes are sealed shut, lips pursed, with intricate curls framing its pale bonny features.

Around them a fog blankets the graveyard, isolating them from the rest of the world.

Hannibal reaches to study its features with the senses in his hand. Finding it insufficient, he stands on the Corinthian base below from which it stands, now nose to nose with it.

A loud indignant shout brings his attention to the cemetery groundskeeper rushing towards Hannibal through the rolling white wisps, the old man's expression is furious. Hannibal calmly offers to pay for the statue but the groundskeeper has been set off on his verbal tirade and heeds none of his words.

The location is rather convenient for Hannibal as he buries him.

* * *

A clock ticks in rapid succession away on a wall to the right of them.

Hannibal puts simply what has been days' muddle of varying thoughts and emotions keeping him on the edge of destruction: "Will has not called to see me."

Bedelia says nothing. Merely waits and observes Hannibal. Then at last he breaks the pregnant pause.

"I would like to see him. I continue to be curious about the way he thinks despite all that's happened," Hannibal reveals. A glimmer of understanding flashes through Bedelia's eyes.

"He's still influencing you. Will not asking to see you could mean many things. He's grown to detest you to an extent from which there is no return, or he is abiding his time like a python waiting for prey."

"And if I cave? If I go see him?"

"That betrays your clear intent to manipulate him."

"Won't he attempt the same?"

"He already has."

"I miss him," Hannibal admits, surprised at the extent of truth in his words. "I think I can still help him."

In fact Hannibal won't stop his cunning until it reaches the conclusion of either Will seeing his side or served on a porcelain platter.

"Is it possible you're confusing your needs with those of your patient's?," There's something similar to reproach on Bedelia's face.

The shadow of a crow distorts and stretches across them for a second at its flapping departure from outside the window. Hannibal lets her implications sink in. They sting.

"Will was never just a patient," Hannibal states, sealing his defensive ire.

"He's changing your behavior and you're hoping you can change his." She then studies him before adding, "The way we think is flawed, but the flaws are systematic. Even when irrational, we are predictable" -a pause - "You're obsessed with Will Graham."

"I'm intrigued."

"Obsessively. He's going to take advantage of that. He already has. He nearly cost you your reputation."

"My reputation is intact."

"For the time being."

The words hang in the air, a clear omen.

"Will is my friend," Hannibal emphasizes.

"Why? Why is he your friend?"

The golden question. What life is that with which one doesn't wonder their reason for or way they will die? The fault in the age they live in is that charm has faded to give way to skepticism at everything that shines. Where an artist fears finding themselves in their art a destructor emulates morality to make themselves and viewers feel a sense of justness rather than exploring the lengths of wonderment. This is the decline of the human race, the world is undeserving of Will and his prowess.

"He sees his own mentality as grotesque but useful, like a chair of antlers. He can't anticipate his thoughts." Hannibal flutters his lashes in a blink, taken back to that room in the corner of his mind where the spinning wheel lies in wait for him. Where Will waits for him. "He can't block them. He can't repress who he is. There's an honesty in that I admire."

"I imagine there's an honesty in that you can relate to." Bedelia sighs, almost inaudibly, but Hannibal tracks the sound and movement with ease. "What can't you repress, Hannibal?"

* * *

Hannibal flourishes an array of food across the table.

"Salted and ash-baked celeriac with foraged sea astra. Frederick, you have tested me. It is rare that I cook a meatless meal."

"I lost a kidney. I have to watch my protein intake."

"You didn't lose it, Frederick. It was taken from you. I remain impressed with your recovery."

"One can grow to love beets." Frederick Chilton takes in the arrangement with hungry eyes. "Alana Bloom was visiting your former patient today."

"Will was never my patient."

"The irony's that Mr. Graham is my patient, and he refuses to speak to me," Chilton says with a touch of bitterness. Hannibal glances at him directly, the twitch of a smile gone the instant it first arrives. "Makes me feel like I'm fumbling with his head like a freshman pulling at a panty girdle."

"Will is going to be challenging for any psychiatrist."

"He is so lucid, so perceptive," Hannibal thinks of the flushed scarlet of Will's lips as Chilton says this, chapped but so enticing as Will relays his insight and charming intellect on the latest case. The memory fades once Frederick continues, "-he's trained in criminal psychology and he's a mass murderer. He's a prized patient. Or should be."

"You thought you'd be like Beaumont studying digestion through the opening in St. Martin's stomach," Hannibal says as he digs into the meal. Though he knows it to be delectable -Frederick's expressions furthering this point- to him it is bland. Everything tastes bland to Hannibal these days.

"As it turns out, I don't think we're any closer to understanding him now than the day he came in."

Hannibal's nearly imperceptible pleasure at Frederick's words renders him mute as he basks in them like tea coated with honey. A hint of flavor brings itself forward from the food on his tongue, Hannibal chases the sensation with the hunger of a starving dog.

"How was Dr. Bloom's visit?"

Something sour crosses Frederick's features. "He asked her to hypnotize him to recover memories." Frederick spoons another mouthful. "This is delicious."

Hannibal's interest heightens at the sound of this. "Was he successful?"

"Only in playing Dr. Bloom. It's sad to see a brilliant psychiatrist fall for such hoary old chestnuts."

"She wants to believe him. I do, too."

Frederick gives him a small look of disappointment, raising a hint of indignation in Hannibal. "Say, Hannibal. Your décor is ...peculiarly interesting." Chilton openly observes the dining room, clearly aiming to change the subject. His gaze falls on the statue in the corner of the room, his eyes move away from it before glancing back at it in a double take. Hannibal tilts his head in question as he watches Frederick struggle to compartmentalize.

"It's alabaster stone. Statues of this artistry are a bit hard to come by nowadays, wouldn't you agree?," Hannibal offers but Frederick's eyes stay glued to it.

Various thoughts cross Frederick's face, all amounting to confusion then dancing between wonder-stricken, denial, then finally landing on recognition and curiosity. "You know," Frederick starts, lips twitching as he continues to stare at it. He licks his lips again and Frederick continues in a whispery gossipy tone, "You do realize-" he gathers his thoughts "-that you're his favorite topic of conversation. Not with me of course. But with anyone who will listen."

Later that night Hannibal's nostrils flare, the smell of budding roses enters the room like a disjointed wandering stranger, wishing Hannibal goodnight after its time away.

* * *

Hannibal is allowed to go see Will. All it took was a considering look and worried word or two about Will's lack of progress under Chilton's care before Jack sent him Will's way, albeit with reluctant permission of one frustrated Frederick Chilton.

"Maybe he'll say something to you."

"Perhaps."

When Hannibal reaches his cell Will is seated to face the brick wall across his bed. He's still as stone and unrelenting to the concentration he has on the cracks of the wall.

"Hello, Will," Hannibal says with no measurable amount of hidden anticipation.

Will doesn't say anything.

"It's good to see you," Hannibal informs. "They said you refused to move to the talking booth, hence my arrival here. Lost in thought?"

The silence stretches for a long time. Hannibal is sure if he holds on Will will relent but said relenting never comes. The wrinkles on Hannibal's face now grow deep.

"I used to hear my thoughts inside my skull with the same tone, timbre and accent as if the words were coming out of my mouth," Hannibal muses aloud. He doesn't want to admit them, but the slight glance Will sends his way makes the words worth it. "Now my inner voice sounds like you. I can't get you out of my head." Hannibal lets the words touch Will. "I theorize it's because friendship can sometimes involve a breach of individual separateness."

Will looks away again. A moue of disappointment flares in Hannibal. So rare is he vulnerable. Will takes a shuddering breath.

"You're not my friend. The light from friendship won't reach us for a million years. That's how far away from friendship we are." Is all Will says before never speaking again.

Hannibal leaves, mind clouded, and annoyed by Frederick's satisfied expression he wears once he leads Hannibal out, having no doubt overheard their conversation through the wires.

* * *

Jack arrives for a drink and chat the next day. He walks through the door into the dining room and at once he pauses, sensing a disturbance like animals sense a storm's future arrival. He swerves his gaze around, a bit lost, then lets it land on the shrouded statue. Its still pale and hunched over in mourning.

"That's new," Jack points out as he takes his seat across from Hannibal while staring at it with considering eyes.

"I acquired it not long ago. The seller was reluctant to hand it over." Brandy falls into the glass with a splash, sunlight filters through it and causes sparklets of light to dance across the table. "That was a good and brave thing you did for Will today."

"May have cost me my job."

Hannibal sets the drinks down. The both contemplate for a moment as they savor.

"The prospect doesn't trouble you as much as I would have thought."

Jack smiles, he raises his glass in mock toast, though his eyes are haunted. "Feel better than I have in weeks."

Perhaps there's more to his guilt at Will's incarceration than Hannibal initially prescribed.

"Clarity will do that," Hannibal nods. Jack's eyes wander back to the weeping statue. "Tell me, Jack. Was your testimony meant to be a resignation?"

"Something very appealing about walking away from all the noise. I'm content to let the chips fall." Jack suddenly rises from his seat. He walks to the statue in determined strides. Hannibal observes.

"The magic door is always attractive. Step through and leave all your burdens behind." Hannibal takes a sip of his drink.

"I've given my life to death," Jack reverends before brushing a finger across the statue's hair and ear as if wanting to tuck the immobile strands behind it. "For a moment I imagined wings sprouted from its back."

"An angel of death?," Hannibal says, interest piqued.

"He looks," Jack pauses before stepping away from the not-angel, fully taking it in. "-familiar."

Jack frowns then walks away from it and settles himself once more across from Hannibal. He resolutely ignores the statue for the rest of their conversation.

* * *

The night shortly after Will sends Matthew Brown to kill Hannibal is a sleepless one. The threads hung from the ceiling of the spinning wheel's room are more entangled and frayed than ever. There is no discernable direction from where it begins or ends, it only loops for eternity.

Will is no where in sight. Hannibal searches for him, chasing after the sounds of his laughter echoing across the lone halls. though he finds nothing. All Hannibal sees are the same dull threads, snapped and knotted overtaking the expanse of his mind palace like unwanted weeds.

Between the little gaps Hannibal sees visuals of his mind's imagination of Will talking to Brown, whispering murder into his ear, coyly assuring his loyalty. Hannibal turns away from them in disturbance but finds even worse, Brown's taunting smile as he tells Hannibal Will sent him. Having seen enough, Hannibal turns away from those thoughts and goes to the cathedral. His statue stands tall, now fully winged and wide eyed at the center of a sea of prayer candles.

"My reckoning was interrupted."

A shiver trickles down Hannibal's spine. He turns around to face Will, who's chest carries a shot wound. It's bright and red. Hannibal recognizes it as the one Jack shot into Matthew Brown.

In a blind rage, Hannibal surges forward and grips Will's arm. "You must not align yourself with someone not your equal, Will. It will impede our progress"

The air becomes humid. Droplets of precipitation form on the stained glass. The halls were once light, clean and sophisticated, now cobwebs cover them in conspiration with the darkness. Flickering candlelight reflects beautifully across Will's skin like fiery birds of prayer.

Will looks down at Hannibal's grip, then back up. Remembering himself, Hannibal takes it back, as if burned. "Afraid of showing your true self even in your own mind?," Will chuckles mirthlessly. "Such a pitiful life you live, Hannibal Lecter. A killer who yearns for humanity."

"Why do you torment me?"

"You did this to yourself."

"I only want what is best for you Will," Hannibal doesn't shout but his words carry across the bristling air like a viper's sting. Will reacts as if slapped.

"I never asked for this," unshed tears gather at Will's eyes. "You took everything from me Hannibal, my reputation, my job, the woman I felt for, our daughter, _my sanity_ , you've consumed my mind the same way I've done yours. Why can't you see?."

"I don't understand," Hannibal murmurs, desperately wishing he could have even a small dosage of Will's empathy. "All this is for you."

"Get away from me Hannibal," Will says, his voice gasping. With a start Hannibal realizes he's becoming translucent.

An antique clock marks the hour as 7:31 pm. The name Will Graham is etched across the lines of Hannibal's notepad, but the man is no where to be seen.

* * *

"Jesus. Jack wasn't kidding." Alana stares at it hard. "I'm concerned for you, Hannibal."

Hannibal cocks his head.

"Don't you see?," She gestures vaguely in the statue's direction.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

"You don't think it looks familiar?," Alana asks incredulously.

"I garner he resembles the men from classical paintings."

"Have you...visited your psychiatrist lately? Talked about what happened?"

"Yes, as is scheduled," Hannibal says thinly, veiling his offense.

"When was the last time you spoke with Will?"

"At the start of his stay at the BSHCI. Initially, I visited him frequently but he refuses to break his vow of silence." Hannibal pauses. "He's still convinced I'm the Chesapeake Ripper."

Alana bites her lip, clearly contemplating telling Hannibal something.

She doesn't stay the night this time. In fact she never sleeps with Hannibal again. Hannibal isn't bothered, her use as an alibi has been fulfilled.

* * *

He sets the gears in motion, Frederick Chilton will sweep the evidence of Hannibal and Will being the Chesapeake Ripper and take the fall. By this time Hannibal has moved the statue to the confines of his bedroom, wanting it near at all times for reasons he puts off exploring.

Rain brackets the outer surface of the building. Hannibal composes a somber tone on his harpsichord once more. The tune is like a lullaby, it strings together his thoughts and yearning.

When he kills his next victim he assure his penitence is clear in every cut, the collection of poisonous flowers filling the cavity of the tree man. Will gets his message.

* * *

Hannibal opens the fridge door. A smell wafts across the room, familiar and freezing Hannibal's joints.

"The same unfortunate aftershave. Too long in the bottle."

Hannibal turns, his excitement is put on hold at the sight of the gun in Will's hands.

"Our last kitchen conversation was interrupted by Jack Crawford. I'd like to pick up where we left off. If memory serves, you were asking me if it'd feel good to kill you."

"You've given that some thought," Hannibal observes.

"You wanted me to embrace my nature, doctor. Just following the urges I kept down for so long, cultivating them as the inspirations they are."

"You never answered my question. How would killing me make you feel?" Hannibal licks his lips.

"Righteous." Hannibal can tell Will means it. He is proud.

* * *

"Are you absolutely sure I can't interest you in a bite?"

The roast is fresh out of the oven and spread on a silver platter, lying between them on the counter. 

"We need to get going, Dr. Lecter," Brian says, though his eyes linger on the juicy meat, no doubt inhaling its sweet aroma.

"Will we be long?" Hannibal looks pointedly down at it. "Only asking if I should refrigerate or cover and cool it on the counter?"

"Put it in the fridge," Jimmy says uncharacteristically stern.

...

"Did you see it?"

"Yeah." Jimmy frowns.

"What do you think it means?"

"I think it means, there was more than the usual psychiatrist and patient relationship going on there."

"Should we tell someone?"

"What is there to tell? Will hates him. I'm sure it's over now."

* * *

When Will arrives at Hannibal's doorstep again he is in a different phase. A transitioning beauty like marble patterned water thrumming with energy. He's cut his hair and arranged it neatly, wearing polished clothes.

"Hello Will."

"May I come in?"

"Do you intend to point a gun at me?"

"Not tonight."

As Will walks in Hannibal tracks his every movement with hungry eyes.

"Are you expecting someone?"

"Only you," Hannibal responds.

"Kept my standing appointment open."

"And you're right on time."

"I have to deal with you. And my feelings about you. I think it's best if I do that directly."

Hannibal tilts his head in acknowledgment. His eyes draw again to the flush of Will's lips, the supple blossoming flesh trembles as Will speaks. To taste their delicate nectar would grant Hannibal the elixr of the gods.

"I'd like to resume my therapy."

Hannibal is utterly and devotedly tormented.

As they sit across from each other Will's eyes catch sight of white alabaster stone from across the room. "What is-" Will says before standing up to inspect closer.

In Hannibal's surprise at Will's arrival he'd forgotten that he'd moved it into the office at all.

Will openly gapes at it, and Hannibal goes through five seconds of quick cold harsh realization that the uncanny beauty both Will and the statue share is marked further by there undeniable resemblance. Will's current frozen form only adds to it.

The silence is so jarring it seems a piece of pencil lead dropping would most definitely echo across them. Will's blue eyes are wide and stuck on the statue while Hannibal's are glued to him. Hannibal's never been one for flushing or embarrassment --if he were capable of those emotions they'd be repressed anyway-- so he merely offers a, "Lovely isn't it?"

Finding his breath again Will turns away from the statue to stare at Hannibal though not quite in the eyes. A hint of rose blossoms artfully across his face. Then Will's lips start to curve, and he and Hannibal find themselves smiling stupidly at one another before both erupting into laughter in the dead of night.


End file.
